


Devotion

by jillyfae



Series: Sweetest of All Sounds [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Archery, Epilogue, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Free Verse, Friendship, Gift Giving, Grief/Mourning, Holidays, Music, Prayer, Prologue, Romance, Starkhaven, The Chantry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 11,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Vael short-fiction, primarily inspired by prompts/art on tumblr.</p><p>Companion piece to Adelaide Hawke's <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/670685/chapters/1225877">Faith</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a-wassailing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Sebastian can't stand each other. But they can be mature about it. Sometimes.

"Anders?"  Sebastian tried not frown as he looked up from the desk in the Estate's study at the abomination's intrusion.  "Hawke's not..." 

"I know," the apostate cut him off, lifting his hand with a sharp jerk, palm facing the Prince.  "I came to see you."

"Why?"  Sebastian's eyebrows lifted in surprise.  He carefully put his quill down on top of the parchment he'd been filling with notes for his latest letter to the Seneschal of Tantervale, thanking the Lord Chancellor for refraining from officially recognizing Goran Vael as Prince of Starkhaven.   _Not that he's particularly interested in recognizing me, either.  Maker, I hate politics.  Enough I think I'm even happy to see Anders, in order to take a break._ "You don't generally wish to see me."

"No, I don't."  Anders scowled, briefly, eyebrows furrowed above his eyes.  "But Hawke does."

"Frequently," Sebastian couldn't help the slightly smug purr.   _Maker, I'm a better man than that.  He deserves compassion to lead him back to the Maker's Light, not my pride rubbed in his face._ He rubbed his hand across his face in self-disgust.  "Sorry, yes?"

Anders' jaw tightened, briefly, but then he shook his head and visibly forced himself to relax as well.  "I would like your help.  For Hawke's sake.  For First Day."

"Mine?"

"There's a carol.  From Ferelden.  I thought, considering the past few years, a happier reminder might be appreciated?"

"That is," Sebastian blinked in surprise.  "A remarkably thoughtful gift.  What do you need me to do?"

"Learn it."  Anders stepped forward to drop several folded pieces of paper on the desk.  "Ask Fenris to help.  Teach him his part."  His shrug was oddly graceful, covered as it was by tattered robes and feathers.  "I doubt he wishes to spend time learning it from me."

"Certainly."  Sebastian nodded slowly, picking up and unfolding the paper to look at the music.

> _Here we come a-wassailing_  
>  _Among the leaves so green,_  
>  _Here we come a-wand'ring_  
>  _So fair to be seen._  
>  _Love and joy come to you,_  
>  _And to you your wassail, too,_  
>  _Maker bless you, and send you_  
>  _A Happy New Year,_  
>  _Maker send you a Happy New Year._

He blinked again, and looked back up.  "This is not your handwriting?"

"No.  Varric."  A hint of a smile slithered its way across Anders' face.  "Could've surprised me, as well.  He already knew the song.  Barely needed any help from me to write it out."

"Tethras does seem to know a little bit of everything, doesn't he?"  Sebastian glanced back down, humming softly under his breath, flipping pages to see the slight differences in harmony between his and Fenris' parts.  "I think we can manage this, without too much trouble."

"Good.  First practice in a sennight.  Isabela's agreed to drag Hawke out with her, so she won't realize we're up to anything.  Assuming you don't ruin it all by letting something slip?"

Sebastian felt his lip twist in a wry smile.   _We just can't be nice, neither of us, can we?_   "Adelaide will hear nothing from me, I swear."

Anders nodded in grudging acceptance, and turned to leave without another word.

"Happy First Day, Anders," Sebastian whispered softly after he left.  "And thank you. For her sake."


	2. Pause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first in a series of daily ficlets for Sebastian Week on tumblr.

There were a lot of reasons Sebastian had always preferred archery to sword practice. There was the not getting hit, which was the answer he usually gave with a self-deprecating shrug and a bit of a laugh. Most people smiled back and left it at that. Usually with a shake of the head, a hint of disdain. _That's a Vael? How the family's been let down by their youngest, too weak to handle even simple sparring._

His brother Matthias had always enjoyed hitting people though, perhaps enjoyed it a bit too much when he'd gotten too old to be a boy, but was not quite of age and frustrated by that fact. Sebastian got to be his target often enough he saw no reason to add more opportunities for bruises.

Besides which, of course, all the rules involved in arms practice always seemed a little silly. If you were really fighting someone, wouldn't you take whatever advantage you could get? Didn't it make more sense to kick someone's knee sideways so he fell to the ground rather than politely standing back when he dropped his blade? He was all for upholding one's ideals, but he sometimes rather thought anyone who tried to fight the way their instructors thought was appropriate for nobility was doomed to an early (and embarrasing) death.

There was, alas, also a bit of pride. He was a better shot than either of his brothers, better than most of the guardsmen he trained with, shaping up to be better than his Grandfather, even, once he was strong enough to pull a longbow. Not that he admitted his pride out loud, or the smug hint that tinged his thoughts when he watched other lesser archers practice. He knew his Grandfather would be disappointed by such arrogance, but he couldn't quite seem to swallow it away.

He hid it as much as possible, at least. No reason to give his Father one more thing to hold against him, one more character trait to inspire disapproval.

He certainly never told anyone the real reason, his favorite part. That moment, right before he let go, when the string was taut and his breath was deep, when the target was in his sight and his entire body was balanced _just so_.

It was in that pause between breaths, when he could feel the Maker's hand on Thedas, sense Andraste's Grace, and knew he was precisely where he was supposed to be.


	3. Peace

Swords were boring. You hit people with them, you cleaned them, you sharpened them. All straight lines and steel.

At least armor had some variety, plate to mail to leather to buckles.

Fletching though.

Fletching took skill. Patience. Artistry, even. The shape of the feather, the grain of the wood, the give of the sinew before it dried and tightened.

The nasty smell of sinew, if you forgot about it and soaked it too long. Not that he'd done that in years. Hard to forget though. Like rancid meat, only... watery and thready.

His mother had raised an eyebrow, slow but decidedly uncurious, turning back to her breakfast without a word when she discovered her youngest made his own arrows. His father's brows and tightened for just a moment, before he nodded. _Almost proud._

The guardsmen had very carefully _not laughed_ at his first few attempts. They'd also 'accidentally' left their own spare arrows around where he could find them, so he didn't actually shoot anyone with a shaft that wouldn't fly straight.

Later, though, they'd asked him to make more for them, to add to their official store. He'd felt an awkward flush of pride, at that. Not that he told anyone. A noble shouldn't be proud he'd made something guardsmen found useful.

He'd learned patience, straightening shafts and carefully shaping feathers. Choosing the right materials and ingredients, getting the fire just the right temperature to cure the fat and oil to protect the wood. Splitting a quill, thinning the tip, separating feathers by strength and curve, so the arrow would spin _just right._

Tail feathers or side feathers, spiral wrap or round, dyed or natural, birch or pine, chicken or goose or turkey or sometimes swan. He preferred the larger birds of prey, eagle or falcon or hawk, but those were valuable enough no one wasted them on the third son and his _hobby._

He liked horn tips, for show, but steel arrowheads were better for actual fighting. Sharpening the wood to a point was really all that was necessary for practice, though.

He found he liked making his own arrows. Not just for the practice, not just for the skill, not just to use. He liked the moment of creation, the stillness when his mind and fingers and eyes were all focused on one thing, one goal.

He thought he'd lost that, in the Chantry. He accepted that, to serve a greater good. Until the first day he was called upon the lead the Chant, and lifted his voice in song, and felt it in his heart when the voices of the Brothers and Sisters echoed him, when he heard the low hum of the congregation joining in. One song. One goal.

Beauty.

Belonging.

Peace.


	4. Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> matins is about midnight, lauds ends at dawn, and prime is the first full morning service, for those who are not rabid Cadfael fans or in some other way familiar with the concept of liturgical hours, which is something I've always thought the Chantry would do to measure the days

Sebastian enjoyed serving the overnight vigil.

(Well, perhaps not quite so much in the middle of winter, when damp seemed to ooze from the stone, slow and sneaky, until his knees were shivering as he waited for the sun to rise. He kept reminding himself to invest in some woolen stockings to wear under his robes, but he never quite got around to it.)

The quiet of the Chantry was seldom interrupted by guests between _matins_ and _lauds,_ and those that did seek comfort usually wanted only quiet prayer, a moment of peace in the dark hours of the morning before dawn.

He enjoyed that peace, himself, content with the simple tasks of tending the brazier, checking the candles, perhaps some minor cleaning or sorting. He could hear every step he took, no matter how gentle his stride. The soles of his boots were firm against stone or wood or rug, a soft yet solid sound in the darkness.

Sometimes someone would ask him to sing a prayer for them, frequently from _Benedictions_ , something to ease the troubles of their daylight hours. He was always happy to oblige, to clasp their hands and bend his head and sing, slow and gentle, for their ears only.

He liked to sing when he was alone, as well, losing himself in melody or rhythm or rhyme, feeling the hours fade away as familiar words helped him pass the time. Not that he always sang the Chant, remembering lullabies or folk songs, nursery rhymes or story songs, tavern staples light on his tongue; plus the occasional jig or reel, hummed as he lightly tapped a toe to keep the time.

He tried to remember to keep those quiet, a whisper of a song just for himself. He knew one of these nights one of the stricter Mothers would wander by just as he descended into something particularly silly or bawdy, and he'd never hear the end of it.

Not that that stopped him. Music was a gift, after all, Andraste's greatest talent, and he didn't think She would disapprove of his enjoyment. And he'd always end his night, kneeling before Her statue, the warmth of candle flames flickering just beyond his hands, and Thank Her for Her mercy, and Her grace.

With an extra thanks added on, because he knew he'd get to sleep the morning away, and let everyone else deal with the nobles who came to see and be seen at _prime,_ more interested in comparing the cut and materials of their newest outfits than honouring the Maker's Word.

All were equal in the Maker's Sight, of course, but Sebastian was only human, and he did so prefer the quiet hours of his vigil to the politicking. Avoiding that was always the perfect end to a lovely duty.


	5. Purpose

> Blessed are they who stand before  
>  The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.  
>  Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.  
>  _-Benedictions 4:10_  
>  Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.  
>  In their blood the Maker's will is written.  
>  _-Benedictions 4:11_

* * *

He'd lost his way.

He'd spent all night kneeling between the pews, _Benedictions 4_ running through his head. He'd manage to convince himself his cause was just, his family's souls at peace, he'd cling to those convictions with desperation, his entire body tense with his need for resolution... _I stood before the wicked..._

But he had faltered at the Demon's touch, the feel of her voice within his mind, the darkness she showed him in his heart, the _want_ and _need_ underlying his every action. Lust for power. Lust for privilege. Such a dark and twisted thing, the urge to prove all those who'd dismissed the youngest Vael as _wrong_.

Simple lust was perhaps the most troubling, precisely because it wasn't simple at all. Desire tangled up with respect and friendship and the memory of her voice and smile, the way she lifted her chin when she felt contrary, the way her eyes narrowed when she was suspicious of someone's motives.

_Isabela gets that expression aimed at her a lot._

Despite his worries, he couldn't resist a smile at that thought, lips curving above his clasped hands.

And there he was, a night of prayer, his thoughts going deeper and deeper, and he was right back where he'd started, shivering and uncertain. How could he choose which path he should take if he was more worried about the warmth of a woman's skin or the smell of her hair than balancing his responsibility to his people against the binding of his vows? _Forsworn or forgotten?_

He ignored the small voice that suggested broken vows would not be so bad, if _she_ came with him. Making a decision based on his own selfish desires would mean the Demon won.

_Goran is a weak man, but not an evil one. Would it be so bad to leave him as Prince, now that we have cut his strings? His Seneschal is a good man, I remember him, he would not steer the Principality wrong. But what if he ignores the Seneschal, convinced of his own importance? He has all the arrogance of the worst of nobility. What will happen when someone else begins to whisper in his ear, telling him tales of power and privilege, rather than duty? Is it irresponsible to leave such a soft spot, a vulnerability at the heart of Starkhaven, just waiting to be exploited?_

For all he'd been exiled from his past life, Sebastian had not forgotten the machinations at Court. _The Orlesians may claim to be the greatest masters of The Game, but everyone plays._ Someone would be jockeying for more power, to fill the hole the Harimann's retreat would leave behind. To take more for themselves, always.

_I do not wish to play that game, ever again._

Was that prudence speaking, or cowardice? He would not lie to himself, not again, and he had to admit that he was tempted to discover how different the Game would be, were he Prince. How much power could he wield, how much good could he accomplish, were he at the top of the tower, rather than trapped in a side building, watching the manipulations of more well placed players pass him by?

_It would be different, so very different, to claim Starkhaven as my own, rather than follow in the footsteps of brothers and courtiers._

That was definitely his pride talking. Dreadful reasons to risk a war ravaging his countryside: power to soothe his ego, and broken vows and political need as excuses to attempt to seduce a woman to his side.

_A remarkable woman, no doubt, but that's not a good enough reason to risk bloodshed. She'd rather despise me for it, in fact._

However much he wanted her, and he'd given up pretending about that, as well, if she thought he was using her she'd never speak to him again, much less allow him to court her.

 _And there's my answer. My blood sings with lust for power and Hawke. The Demon was right. What good did I do with all my privilege when I was a noble youth? None at all. I shall not succumb to that life again._ He swallowed, the feel of broken hopes sharp and dark within his chest. He had not even realized he'd harbored such dreams, of a life away from Kirkwall, of a life of pleasure and family, until he'd finally made himself abandon them. _I shall have no bride besides Andraste. I have sworn, and I have lived, and so it shall remain._


	6. Passion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (and obviously, at some point, he changed his mind after that last one ... ^_~)

She smelled a bit like dog, with hints of leather and metal, from training with Daryn and the Guard. Her skin was salty with sweat beneath his tongue from working under the heat of a _Ferventis_ sun, her hair a hot black tangle against his fingers when he yanked it free of its ties.

She'd tried to push him away with a laugh when he'd tugged at leather straps and reached for the buckles on her armor, claiming she was disgusting, and needed a bath. Her breath had caught, the laughter silenced when he nipped at her neck, kissed her skin, licked along her jaw. He countered right into her ear that she was delicious, and her 'tub was certainly big enough for two, and he was only helping her get her armor off, now wasn't he?

He felt the swallow go down her throat as his breath teased against her skin, felt the slightest shudder cross her stomach as he loosened leather enough his hands could slide along the hot smooth skin along her hips. There was just an instant of boneless surrender when her initial surprise fled, her body hot and heavy in his arms, a low purr vibrating through her throat beneath his mouth.

She rallied almost immediately, though, countering his ambush with hot hands sliding under his breeches, fingers digging into his arse, pulling their bodies tightly together. She angled her head, her mouth pausing just in front of his, breath hot and ragged. He refused to wait for her to close the gap, leaning in to touch her lips, to feel her tongue, to taste, to kiss.

Her leathers didn't make it to the armor stand. They didn't even make it into one pile, scattered and kicked to the side as they peeled her free of them, his light shirt and breeches a simple pull and toss in comparison until they had skin on skin, nothing but the slick of sweat between his fingers and her curves, the hard bump of her knee against his shin as they shifted across the floor.

She shoved him flat onto the hearth-rug, but he didn't stay down, rising back up to capture her breast in his mouth, hands splayed across her back to hold her close. Her nails dug into his shoulders in response, the sound of her voice an ache in his heart, her wordless moan above his head urging him on. Not that he needed any urging. It was easy, always so very easy, to lose himself in her, to adore each sound, each shift, each sigh, to give her his every desire. She always reflected his need back again, just as desperate as he always felt, wanting skin, and touch, and taste.

And _her_.

He rolled her back over again, flat against the rug, her body burning up, trapped beneath him, her thighs lifted up against his hips, holding him tight, a line of tension down her neck as she arched up towards him, eyes dark, so dark, the brown lost in black and shadows and lust as her lips moved, breath so light she almost didn't make a sound.

_Yes._

They came together hard, a slap of skin, her hips rising to meet his thrust, their mouths wide and gasping, managing a kiss, two, a gentle nip along a jaw as he pulled out and in, over and over, until her body went taut and she called his name, clenching around him until he lost himself again, until there was nothing at all in all the world beyond the feel of her around him as he filled her, the taste of her lingering on his tongue, the smell of her in the air he breathed. Nothing in all the world was better than her weight against his, bodies tangled together, her fingers stroking his skin, her hair smooth under his thumb, her voice a hum of pleasure against his ears. Even the scratch of the carpet beneath him, the heat of still air against skin, couldn't detract from his perfect afternoon.

Though they were definitely both now in dire need of that bath.


	7. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [art-set](http://mschignon.tumblr.com/post/23694690222/we-stand-together) and quotation by [mschignon](http://mschignon.tumblr.com)

> "We stand together!"

* * *

At five, Sebastian Vael had declared himself his brothers' page, determined to follow them everywhere. That's what younger brothers did, yes, help their kin? Having reached the advanced ages of fourteen and fifteen, his brothers were less than pleased by the thought of a toddling brat on their heels however, and 'accidentally' misplaced him in the woods.

His nursery maid, frantic at losing her charge, had enlisted his Grandfather to help find him. (He was too young to join the family at formal dinners, but his parents would notice if he failed to come down to say goodnight while they were sipping their wine before hand.) And the old man did find him, tracking him easily, wiping away mud and tears, giving him a ride back home on his old black stallion, calm now that his years in service had passed, carting him quietly up the servants' stairs, conveniently losing the shirt with the torn elbows so no one else would ever know.

His brothers wouldn't have been the ones to get in trouble, after all, only the poor nursery maid.

Sofia had been her name, dark of skin and soft of hair, her family descended from five different kinds of traders, her voice sweetened by way of a Rivaini Mama who'd wandered up the Minanter and never left.

_Sofia had still been there, in charge of the nursery, almost twenty-five years later when the mercenaries came. She had been killed along with the family as she'd tried to protect her charges. She'd taken one of the Flint bastards with her though, an idiot who underestimated the danger and got a knife across his throat for his arrogance._

* * *

The next year, when Corbinian had been sent away to foster in Kirkwall, (preparing the Heir for politicking, after all, learning his place in the Viscount's Court), Sebastian had attempted to comfort his other brother at the loss of his closest friend and confidante.

Matthias had cracked a rib when he shoved him away, Sebastian stumbling hard across an end table, knocking over one of his mother's favorite vases in the process, fragile ceramic breaking against the flagstones.

Even at six, he'd known better than to protest when he'd been sent to serve penance with the Mother in the family chapel for his clumsiness, (after the healer had dosed him and taped his chest and declared him fit, of course, they weren't savages), while Matthias was squiring for the Captain of the Prince's Guard at dinner.

Corbinian and Matthias had been born one after the other, only a year and a half between them, but there'd been almost a decade passed before the third child was born, and no one ever seemed to know quite what to do with him. By ten he had most of the Chant memorized, despite a distinct lack of devotion, due to the many evenings spent alone in a pew, forced to _consider his actions._ Repentance might have been the intent, but learning how not to get caught was the actual result.

_It wasn't until after they were all dead and gone that Sebastian found the line of small plaques in the family mausoleum, three late-term miscarriages and one still-born little girl, to mark those nine years between living sons. It was too late, now, to understand the shadows in his mother's eyes, every time she'd looked at him._

* * *

There had been bright moments, of course. His Grandfather's strong hands, his Grandmother's stories. A periodic flash of pride or understanding from his parents. His brothers had both steadied as they grew older, content with their duties as Heir and Lieutenant, too proud to bother with teasing or tormenting their brother anymore.

They'd even been a bit impressed with the tricks he'd learned, as he grew older, nimble fingers and a smart mouth, a bit of charm to smooth things over with their parents, when necessary. His worst infractions against the 'family honor' were hidden behind the ease with which he could smooth his face and recite an appropriate Chantry verse.

_All that time relegated to serving with Mother Selene had to do some good, yes?_

It probably shouldn't have surprised him, then, to be shipped off to Kirkwall as soon as his brother was finally married. Couldn't have the resident rake teasing the new young wife, and he had always seemed so good at the Chant.

And yes, perhaps he'd seduced a few eligible prospects out from under his brothers in the past, but he certainly wouldn't have attempted it with an actual _spouse._

Probably.

Maybe?

Though she was uncommonly pretty.

She'd still been pretty, almost ten years later, a new mother, holding her first born child in her arms, a baby with bright blue eyes and the first wisps of blonde hair soft across her scalp. Her voice had been sweet and low as she greeted her brother-in-law, who'd gotten leave from his duties in Kirkwall to visit for the Naming.

_We shall call her Meghan, after Grandmother. Corbin had smiled, simple joy, a clean and open expression, something he'd almost never permitted himself._

Matthias, of course, had managed to take insult; Sebastian hadn't attended the Namings of any of _his_ children. (And despite starting two years later than Corbin, he'd already managed four, with a fifth on the way.) Nevermind that neither Matthias nor his wife had actually _invited_ Sebastian to any of them. Logic had never been one of the middle Vael brother's strong suits.

But at least he loved his children, all of them, visiting them in the nursery, dragging them out on picnics and hunts and even letting Sofia sing them all her favorite story songs without muttering about the _base influences_ of lower-class mumblings, as the Prince and Princess had been wont to do thirty years before.

Sebastian had carefully not allowed himself the luxury of imagination, of wondering what it might have been like, to grow up like that.

_He'd been unable to exercise the same restraint, later, and managed all too clearly to picture precisely what it had been like for them to die._

* * *

It was possible they'd never been family in more than name, not after his Grandfather died, not before Meghan was born. But he'd still loved them. Still owed them. Still needed to honour their memories. Starkhaven was more than just a City and a Keep, she was the people who lived there. Who'd died there. Who deserved better than they'd gotten, and who deserved, at the very least, to be remembered.

And avenged.

Sebastian was rather startled to discover he would not have to seek that vengeance on his own. A young Fereldan upstart, Hawke. The perfect friend when duty called for blood.

And perhaps even someone to drink with, afterwards, to help chase away the nightmares.


	8. Desire

> _ “Now you’ll be the shining Prince.” _

The first time he'd dreamed of power, he'd grown bitter. He'd indulged every other desire, knowing that he could not have what he truly wanted. Respect. Recognition.

The second time, he'd known it for a dream, and thought himself blest to have left it behind, to have found a place where he could do good. Where he could help. He was not recognized for himself, but rather the robes he wore, and he considered himself content.

The third time, the dream was brought back to life by foul magic, by darkness incarnate, but he knew in his heart that _she_ had not created it, only brought it out into the light.

And he no longer knew what to do with it, this dark and twisted hope to shine where all could see. He had no robes to hide behind. No throne to sit upon. But oh, how he _wanted more._


	9. the path we take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reminiscing on where you are, and how you got there; takes place sometime between Act 2 and Act 3.

**Family**   


Adelaide asked him, once, about his smile. His laugh. Said he did either so rarely, and usually only when they were alone, and he shrugged. Wasn't sure how to answer. 

He knew all about smiles. He'd learned of them quite thoroughly, when he was young. Which one was for servants, which for merchants, which should be bestowed on honored guests. ( _Which one worked for seducing barmaids, though that one was carefully kept far away from his family._ ) Which smile to use when wishing his mother good-day at breakfast, and most especially how _not_ to smile when greeting his father at Court. The Prince did not appreciate levity.

The Prince had appreciated very little about his youngest.

Sebastian had always pretended he wasn't aware of that. Pretended he didn't care.

The choice to smile, for a noble, very rarely had anything to do with true emotion. And so, now that he strove for honesty, he found he seldom wished to slide one across his face.

Not that he didn't still wear a mask, but the calm of the Chantry seemed less a lie than the charms of a noble, even if he used both to hide his thoughts as he watched those around him.

Not that it worked on Adelaide. She ignored his expression completely, looking at the stance of his shoulders and the shadows in his eyes, leaning in to kiss him at the most unexpected of moments, shrugging and smiling when she's done.

_You're irresistible, you know that?_

And of course, then he had to smile, his heart broken with wonder, that this woman loved him, that he found someone to whom he can belong. 

A family worth smiling about, Adelaide Hawke.

* * *

**Duty**   


He was so angry, when his family sent him to Kirkwall. _Threw him away in Kirkwall._ Condemned to a prison of stone walls and incense and heavy robes and self-righteous Sisters. And chastity. They'd never condemned Corbinian or Matthias for their flirtations, but for some reason it was different when Sebastian did it. Worse.

_Everything was different when I did it._

He was determined to escape, no idea where, but he would be free. He wouldn't let them throw him away. He'd run and run and never let them trap him again.

And then the Grand Cleric. Grace in every sense of the word. Opened the doors, and pronounced him free already. _The Chantry is never a prison, my son, but always a shelter._

Perhaps, he realized, he'd been the one about to throw himself away. Perhaps he was not meant to be just the youngest Vael. Perhaps his duty lay somewhere other than in Courts or battles. And perhaps a duty chosen with clear eyes would never be too heavy to bear.

Until it was. 

Ten years of duty lost in bloodshed and rage and grief.

He broke when his family died, _not died, brutally killed, nothing so simple as death_ , and barely put himself together again, limping along with prayers and swallowed tears and overnight vigils. Haunted in his dreams each night, the screams he had not been able to hear, too far away in Kirkwall to defend them, protect them. _Too far away to die with them._

He broke again when he realized no one else would act. No one else would seek justice for blood spilled, apparently content to let their deaths fade in memory, to let Starkhaven settle under the plump neglectful fingers of his idiot cousin rather than risk more violence.

The Grand Cleric counseled patience, counseled forgiveness, counseled Faith. She reminded him of his vows. She reminded him to forsake his worldly concerns, not to answer violence with violence. But he could not sing the Maker's Words when those who had sinned against His Laws walked free.

_I could not, or I would break a third and final time, and there would be nothing left of me._

Perhaps there had been nothing left of him, content to fling himself into the fray, to kill himself while seeking vengeance. He was quite sure that he would have succeeded, blood spilled on cobblestones or sand, life draining away, wasted in anger, wasted in the deaths of mercenaries. 

If not for Hawke.

Who made him face the truth, that duty meant he had to live.

This time, duty chosen with a full heart gave him peace. _Eventually._ And a new life, by Adelaide's side.

* * *

**Honor**   


He woke, some days, feeling lost in the dark, wondering where to go, what to do. Every step, he tried to do his best, to do what was right, to serve the Maker's Will, to honor His Bride and Her teachings.

And yet.

He was foresworn, vows abandoned for political gain.

He protected apostates with his silence.

_More than passive silence, in Hawke's case. I would fight the Knight Commander herself, for Adelaide's sake._

Which was a choice he could not regret.

So here he was. Breaking every law he claimed to revere, and he could not find a single step he would not take again, were he offered the chance to do it over.

_Well, I would kill the desire demon before the Harimanns chose to slaughter my kin, if possible._

But he felt a twinge of unease at that. If he had killed the demon, if his family still lived, he would still be sworn to the Chantry. He would still be bound by vows. He would not have found his Adelaide. He would save his family, of course, but the thought of his life without her... 

_I would never have found such happiness._

His honor was lost, broken to pieces against the choices he had to make, and the choices he wanted to make, and the choices he knew he would make again.

Sometimes, when he was alone, he'd pick up the pieces and shine them, in his mind's eye, trying to find the edges, trying to decide at what moment he'd gone too far, wondering if there was a way to put them back together again.

Wondering if he wanted to put his honor back together again.

His people's safety was worth more to him than his word. 

Adelaide's happiness was worth more than his life. 

What was honor compared to the lives of Starkhaven, the love of a Hawke?

Perhaps there was an honor of a sort to be found in that, after all. In putting others first. In finding joy. In protecting love.

_I shall love her 'til my dying breath._

That was more than enough for him. He would gladly follow the path she took. There could be no higher honor than that.

  



	10. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ema](http://thedivinemissema.tumblr.com/) prompted:
>
>>   
>  I always want more Sebastian/Adelaide, but am at a loss for a proper prompt. Just random words keep coming to me, if that’s acceptable. Heat and Lyrium and the Deep Roads.

Sebastian hadn’t been with her, the last time she’d been so deep underground.

He couldn’t decide if he wished he wasn’t here now, _but then I’d have let her go down without me, and that would be even worse,_  or he wished he had been there then,  _would I have ended up Tainted, instead of her brother?_ , but he was starting to understand the appeal of the qunari’s explosive powder.  Destroying every tunnel and burying the darkspawn for all eternity seemed like a perfectly wonderful idea.

But that would have to wait until they’d all managed to get out again.

Hawke had pulled a little ahead of them, stalking down the tunnel as if she could make the path cooperate out of sheer stubborn willpower.  Of course, that had been a few hours ago, and they were all starting to slow down a little, the gap between them widening, until slowly she stopped, her shoulders curved as she braced her staff against the stone floor, her fingers wrapping around the wood as if it was the only thing still holding her up.

Sebastian shot a glance at Varric, who refrained from rolling his eyes for once, turning instead to gather everyone else together for a rest and a drink and a snack, as Sebastian walked up to stand by Adelaide.

He wanted to take her in his arms, to tuck her against his shoulder and kiss her hair.  But she seldom appreciated such things in public, most especially not when she was trying so very hard to hold herself together.  He ached to watch her jaw flex as she breathed, to witness the shadows in her eyes as she opened them to look at him.

There was a hint of sweat gathering along the line of her hair, the skin tight across her forehead and temples, and he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, brushing his thumb along the line of her brow, his fingers brushing her hair behind her ear.

She shuddered, and he almost pulled back, until he realized some of her tension had eased with the motion, and he stepped in closer instead.

“I can hear it singing,” she whispered.  It was a rough sound, unusually so, as if her voice was catching on something, and she had to pull it free before it would answer to her will.  

He’d had cause to admire her will, over the years, the way she always kept herself in control; it seemed a rather brittle victory at the moment, the way her movements were a little too sharp, her skin too thin over her knuckles as her hands shifted along her staff.  

“What’s singing?”  He kept his own voice as soft as he could, trying to soothe despite their surroundings.  

“The walls.”  She blinked at him, and he tried not wince at how wide her pupils had gone, at how clearly he could see her swallow.  ”There’s lyrium behind them.  Corrupted, I think.  Not as badly as the idol, but it’s not quite… right.  It whispers when I try to rest.”

“Oh, Adelaide.”  She blinked at him as his arm slid to her shoulder, and he was finally doing as he’d wanted for hours, pulling her close enough her hair caught on his chin, until she stopped holding herself so very still, and the weight of her head settled against him with a sigh.  He hummed softly, a bit of the Chant that flickered to life; it was rather easy to bring to mind without much thought, after all those years singing it for services.

She sighed again, though it sounded noticeably less exhausted already.  Almost the hint of a laugh.  ”It’s a good thing we didn’t bring Anders or Merrill.  I doubt this particular cure would work for them.”

The melody wobbled a little as he almost laughed himself, his arms shifting around her to turn their slightly awkward mutual lean into as close to a proper embrace as could be managed around armour and weapons.

“You,” he said when his stanza came to an end and her shoulders didn’t tighten back up again, “are not taking a watch tonight, and I am making sure you actually get to sleep.”

She tilted her head just enough to reveal a glimpse of her eyes beneath her lashes and a quirk of her lips before she spoke.  Her whisper was still rough, but this time the sound of it made his skin flush with heat.  ”Going to wear me out, are you?”

“I was planning to sing you a lullaby,” his thumb traced a path down her cheek until his fingers curled beneath her chin, and he lifted her face a little higher, admiring the way her neck stretched, her body leaning in towards him.  ”But I think I like your idea better.”

He kissed her then, ignoring Isabela’s whistle in the background in favor of the soft brush of Adelaide’s lips, the shift in their weight as her fingers clenched around the strap of his quiver to pull him closer, even the way they both still smelled of stale bread from their rations.  Despite the warmth of her in his heart, the heat that tensed the muscles below his stomach with anticipation, he let his arms ease and drop to his sides as she stepped back.  He always hated that moment, that instant after her breath brushed against his mouth, when he felt the air beside him cool without her in it.

But her face was no longer quite so pale, her back straight but not so stiff, and he smiled when she winked at him.  ”Or you could do both?”

He laughed, feeling perhaps a little smug,  _I did that for her, helped her here, in these blasted tunnels_ , and followed her as she waved them all further along their path.

He was rather sure he’d follow her anywhere.

He did so enjoy the view.


	11. loss

he thought he’d left it behind

he remembered,   
of course,  
the curl of heat  
the smell of skin once all the clothes were gone  
the rush of victory  
when someone else’s blood was spilt  
and his stayed hot within his veins

but that was not him  
not anymore  
he sang now  
instead of swearing  
prayed  
instead of gambling  
helped  
as he could  
when he could  
instead of indulging every whim  
lashing out against his family’s reputation

he’d never wanted peace  
but he’d found it  
and been grateful

or so he’d thought

such shallow things  
piety  
faith  
routine

when broken by death

he had no peace within him now  
something dark  
and heavy  
trying to claw its way out

he did not quite let it free  
but neither could he banish it

the sharp slash of each breath  
the heavy ache of each beat of his heart  
his punishment  
he wasn’t worth killing  
he had to survive

he was the ghost  
no force behind his words  
no one to listen  
no one to care  
alone

silent footsteps against stone  
it could no longer hold him  
no longer comfort him  
the strength of its walls a lie  
the ease of its words a betrayal

he had thought himself happy  
he could not remember what happy was  
he could not remember how to smile  
without wanting to see blood spill  
red drops against Kirkwall’s sand  
screams louder than the ocean’s waves

the only ease he felt now  
was that last shudder of a   
man  
when he died  
at Sebastian’s hand

* * *

It took years

for the poison in his soul to ease  
to drain away  
a little more each day  
that he heard someone laugh

any time he  
watched Varric roll his eyes  
or answered Merrill’s questions  
shared a drink  
or a tale  
or a game

saved a beggar  
stopped a slaver  
found a missing child

the beast in his soul   
settled  
slept  
but he knew now he would never  
be free from its grip

he’d broken his own heart  
fed it anger ‘til it cracked  
and he knew  
if he had the chance  
he’d do the same again

knew  
he could not bear the taste of sorrow  
without fighting against its cause

he had no home  
no place  
no one who needed him

his first duty barred from him  
by politics  
his second lost   
along with his faith

he’d spoken of justice  
to give his family peace  
but he’d wanted  
blood for blood  
pain for pain  
and if not for Hawke  
he’d have paid for death  
with his own

he would not speak the Maker’s Word  
when he knew himself a liar  
when he remembered how good it felt to hate

he would not return to his people  
when he knew he could  
so easily   
turn his power  
to feed the darkness  
not the light

so he followed Hawke

perhaps to do some good  
despite the shadows

what else was there to do?


	12. Brash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "An excerpt from the journal of Sebastian Vael his first week in the Chantry, before the Grand Cleric offers him an out and he chooses to stay."
> 
> An anonymous prompt for an epistolary meme on tumblr.

_Terribly bored._

_So bored I am scribbling in this damn book, even._

_But for some reason writing looks ever so much more respectable than playing cards or drinking._

_Not that I have cards or wine._

_Damn Leland anyways._

_Why I couldn’t have been sent with Captain Marcus instead?_

_He’s a right idiot, we never would have made it all the way to Kirkwall before I got free._

_Leland took away my bow, even. On the one hand, it’s rather nice that someone actually knows I am good enough at something it’s worth worrying about._

_On the other hand, why did no one bother to notice I’m not completely inept until it was time to lock me away behind cold stone for the rest of my life?_

_All because The Heir hasn’t managed an heir of his own yet._

_As if I were stupid enough to get some light skirt pregnant and mess up the succession._

_But of course everyone besides Leland thinks I am._

_Damn them all, anyways._


	13. brontide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the sound of distant thunder_
> 
> prompted by [lafemmedarla](http://lafemmedarla.tumblr.com/)

Sebastian’s head hurt.

He’d been celebrating the first autumn storm, the break in the dreadful heatwave they’d had this past summer, scorched fields and hungry sheep finally eased with a crack through the air and a violent downpour.

Not that he really needed an excuse to celebrate, but he had, perhaps, gone a bit too far this time, his memories a blur of skin and wine and sharp-edged laughter owing more to pride than actual amusement.

His tongue felt thick, and his pillow smelled funny.  Probably because his hair felt rather disgusting?

He shifted slightly, tried not to groan.

He managed to roll over on to his back, opened his mouth to assist in a slow pant for slightly fresher air, kept his eyes closed in a vain attempt to ease the aches.

He could smell the rain through his open shutters, hear the wind still blowing past the walls, but it had settled into something steady and even, nothing like the whipped branches and flashes of lightning from before he’d passed out.

And yet.

The weight he’d felt hovering over him the past few weeks hadn’t eased, as if he was waiting for something worse than simple weather.

_If Grandfather was …_

But no.

That was not a train of thought worth following.

He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, pretending it was because of the pain of his hangover, not the heat growing behind them, or the hollow ache in his chest.

He had no one he could ask about the tension at Court, no one who would deign to take him seriously.

He would just have to wait and see.

And hopefully, when whatever metaphorical storm was brewing broke over his head, he’d manage to take a few of the bastards encouraging it down with him.


	14. penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[in-umbra-gratia](http://in-umbra-gratia.tumblr.com/) requested Soup Kitchen Sebastian, so to speak, which seemed appropriate for the season?_

Sister Etheline had the most evil smile when she was particularly pleased with herself, or particularly looking forward to his discomfiture.

They were usually one and the same moment, as she’d been Sebastian’s very first mentor when he’d started out as a lay brother, and had had to beat quite a lot of sense into his thick skull over the years.

This particular moment, however,  _was not his fault._

She seemed to be enjoying it anyways.

For every annum feast day, the Chantry made sure to host a feast in Lowtown for those souls too poorly off to have their own.  Every year, more people came, (but never elves, to Sebastian’s endless frustrations), so every year the Grand Cleric had to encourage greater donations, and more volunteers, from amongst the well-to-do in Hightown.

His first year in Kirkwall he’d been assigned to assist, and they had had record numbers of volunteers, all bringing food or drink or linens, all jostling for a look at the infamous scapegrace Vael boy before he stumbled and revealed the false front of his piety.

And still they came, even now, to flirt or tease or watch, as if it were probable to have pretended for five solid years, each trying to be the one who made him crack.

Or just to see how indecent their propositions could become before he’d stumble over his words, or blush with ill-contained temper.

Well, he contained it well enough they usually thought it embarrassment, at least.

"Do you think," he whispered to Sister Etheline, head tilted as he stared at the door to the kitchens, "if I ask very nicely, the Grand Cleric would let me  _not_  have kitchen duty next annum?”

"No."

He sighed.

Etheline snorted, and slapped him on the shoulder.  ”Their motives may not be pure, but they do an awful lot of good despite themselves.  Would you want someone to go hungry, merely because you were tired of dodging a few indelicate flirts?”

He sighed again.  ”Of course not.”

She cackled.  He tried to consider it simply a laugh, but he could not avoid the  _glee_ behind the sound.  ”The perils of having too pretty a face, my boy.”

"I canna help  _my face._ ”

"No, but you could have helped what you did with it, before you came to us."  Despite the creases across her face, and the crackling in her knuckles when she curved her fingers, her palms were strong when she placed them against his cheeks.  He bent his head, and she kissed him gently on the forehead before letting him go and waving him towards the door. "Consider this your penance.  ’Tis but a few nights a year, after all."

"Yes, sister."  He lifted his chin, and firmed his shoulders, and walked into the kitchens.


	15. bemused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "upside-down kiss" prompted via the tumblr kiss meme by [yours-sincerely-azureth](http://yours-sincerely-azureth.tumblr.com/)

Sebastian considers leaving her be. It is so seldom she gets enough sleep, after all, and the fire is banked and the room is dim and warm.  

But her head has settled against the wing of the armchair at quite a terrible angle; it hurts just to look at it, and he can only imagine what it’s likely to feel like, if she sleeps that way for too long.

Even so, he pauses at the back of her chair, looking down at her, the shadows beneath her eyes hidden by the angle of her lashes, the frown that had settled almost permanently between her brows eased by sleep.

He reaches down and smooths a lock of hair back from her face and behind her ear, smiling as she huffs out a breath and her fingers twitch, but she doesn’t quite wake up.

He leans down this time, close enough to murmur just above the now revealed curve of her ear.  ” _Adelaide._ ”

She hums, almost a sigh, almost a moan, one of his very favorite sounds, truth be told, warm and inviting, and he is still smiling as her eyes slowly blink open.

"Ohh," a proper sigh this time, as she focuses on his face, as she smiles back.  She lifts her chin, and he closes his eyes as she kisses him, slow and soft.  "Mmm," she hums again, "what a lovely way to wake up."

"Only long enough to come to bed, love."

Her smile widens, a curve of lip and brightening eyes, and he laughs softly, even as he feels the heat of her invitation warm him in response.

"That’s an even better way to wake up."


	16. The Unstrung Bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I cannot find the original post that inspired this, but the name of the tavern is all [cheesiestart](http://cheesiestart.tumblr.com/)'s fault. :D

His father’s mouth had always tightened at the corners, whenever he overheard the name mentioned.

His Grandfather though, had smiled. _They were always glad to see me there, when I was young and stupid.  Makes a man remember a place fondly._

So of course it was where Sebastian went, his first stop every time he escaped beyond the walls of the Keep.

His favorite tavern, where they smiled to see him, and his bow, and offered him ale, or wine, or a game of targets, and cheerfully pretended not to recognize bright blue eyes and too rich clothing.

They even helped him con the new-comers at the shooting range behind the stables, everyone always playing up how very incompetent he had to be, a lost lush of a spoiled rich boy, willing to bolster his lousy manners with coin.

He always used his winnings to buy a round or two for the house.

Everyone left happy.


	17. draw weight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> twistedsinews [prompted](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/83629771556) "Sebastian or Isabela" for a _make me choose_ meme.

It took so long to make an arrow.

A straight shaft, sanded and shaped, sinews soaked, feathers trimmed, the proper head made if necessary, if possible, purchased if not,  _steel or stone or wood, pointed or blunt,_  everything measured, and formed, and attached, just so, clean and straight and even to make it fly, straight and true, to make it spin,  _just enough._

It took years of practice, of learning the draw, tasting the air and feeling the pull of wood and string and arm and shoulder, until you could pull it fully back, could aim by feel instead of sight, could watch it  _soar._

Could feel it take only a breath of time, between when you set it free, and when it killed.

So little time to take a life.

_All those hours gone._


	18. fall leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some autumnal fluff for [sept](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/99080969833), inspired by a halloween art challenge on tumblr

The sky opened up above them, a pale endless blue, clean and brisk. Sebastian took a deep breath, and let it free, feeling his chest empty and his shoulders ease. Away from Kirkwalls tight walls, the broken foothills and cliffs and beaches of the Wounded Coast spread out around them, on and on and on, until they almost looked soft, pale greys and greens fading and disappearing into the haze of distance.

Even the distant sound of the ocean was muffled and soft. Deceptively soothing, all of it together, as if there was no need to worry about whatever might be around the next curve of the road.

The wind gusted by, a tangle of chill and salt and dust leading the way around that enticing curve before them. The slightest shift of leather to the side caught his attention, and he turned just in time to watch Hawke's shoulders roll, a hint of a frown fading from her expression as she caught his eyes.

"Cold?" 

She snorted and shook her head, her steps almost soundless on the hard-packed ground beneath them. "Barely feels like autumn at all. Too warm." The crease between her eyebrows almost turned into a frown again. "Doesn't even smell right."

"Ah yes, Ferelden and its winters." He felt his lips twitch. "You've been in the Marches about a half a dozen years now. Still think we're doing the weather wrong?"

"No, of course." Her voice trailed off, and the side of her mouth curved up. "Well, yes, a bit." The hint of a smile faded, her attention shifting somewhere in the distance. "The problem's the trees, I think."

Sebastian blinked, glanced around at the short twisted shrubs that held the sandy soil together.  _What tre-_

_Oh._

"The complete and total lack of them?"

She shrugged, as if trying not to agree. "I miss the leaves."

"Ah." He felt himself sigh, remember the view from his room, almost twenty years ago, the smell of the wind rushing across the foothills south of Starkhaven, the rustle of leaves like a promise of all the places he would go, _someday_. "Yes, that would be nicer than the damp hint of salt everywhere."

Her voice was almost a whisper. "Be something that wasn't  _grey._ "

He stepped closer, let his fingers brush against the back of her hand, until she turned her wrist and they could hold hands. He smiled as his fingers caught between hers, and forgot for a moment that he'd had something he'd been planning to say.

"I know a few things that aren't grey."

One eyebrow lifted, and her smile reappeared, small and tight and still a little crooked. "Do you now?"

"Hmmm." He hummed, and shifted his weight to shorten his stride to match hers. "Orana's cinnamon rolls, for one, are a lovely warm toasted brown."

She breathed out half a laugh beside him. "And her cherry tarts are such a nice dark red?"

A startled laugh broke out of his throat, almost a cough, and her fingers tightened around his.

"Why yes," he managed after a moment. "That they are."

He followed the pull of her hand, stopped walking and turned towards her; her smile had curled up a bit more, and it gave such a pleasant ache to his heart when she smiled like that, warm and soft and almost sly.

She lifted her chin, and he leaned in close, close enough his nose just brushed against hers, and he could smell the warmth of her hair, and hear the soft hum deep in her throat.

"You are never grey, my Adelaide, always the warmest, brightest soul I've ever known."

He could feel the catch in her breath, the bump of her nose as she tilted her head, just enough, and her lips reached his. 

It was just a quick kiss, before she rocked back onto her heels, but it was perfect, short and sweet, a heartbeat,  _a lifetime_ , the warmth of her caught against his mouth, the ache in his heart twisting, trying to capture the moment and never let it drift away.

"Open your eyes, Sebastian."

He did, slow and heavy though he felt, and there, another favorite smile, wide and shy, as if surprised by what she saw before her. "Silly me, to think the world was grey, when your eyes are right here looking at me."

"Lucky me, to see you there." He kissed the tip of her nose, just to hear the breath of her laugh again. Another gust of impatient wind pushed its way between them, and he stepped back with a sigh. "We're going to be late."

"Aveline's used to us, I'm afraid." Hawke didn't sound afraid, her eyes bright and her tone wryly amused. "But I suppose we shouldn't keep her waiting too long."

"Of course not." He bumped his elbow against her arm, and they started down the road again, side by side.


	19. forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I tend not to move forward quite this far in time, but teadrinkingdragon asked so nicely for a glimpse, [20 years forward](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/110520372363), of a quiet moment. It was irresistible.

There’s nothing as beautiful in all the world as Adelaide’s laugh, brighter than the sun above them, warmer than the breeze up from the beach. Nothing as soft as the brush of her hair against his skin, thick and heavy, still as black as the night between stars.

Nothing as perfect as the color of her eyes right before he kisses her, rich and sun-kissed ‘til they seem to glow like gold.

Her lashes have faded, no longer as dark as her hair, no longer as thick, but they still feel like a butterfly’s kiss against his cheek when she closes her eyes.

He can’t resist, kissing the mole beneath her eye, feeling her cheeks shift in a smile even before he moves enough to kiss the one above her mouth, and she is laughing again, almost silently, head ducking down against his shoulder.

"You could have done that in our very own kitchen."

"Not if I didn’t want to be interrupted by a chorus of groans."

She snorts, and he laughs at the familiar sound.

"What?" He widens his eyes in pretend innocence as she lifts her head, delighted when her smile lifts up higher on one side. "Our children are not romantic, love."

"Well, no, not when it’s their _parents_.” She nudges him with her elbow, and he kisses the tip of her nose.

Her eyes roll, but then her palms are soft against his cheeks, and she lifts herself up to kiss him, and his heart skips up too high in his chest, his hands tangle in her hair, his mouth opening wide to hers, and she leans into him until they tumble backwards, and there’s such comfort in the weight of her across his chest, in the taste of her and the way his breath catches, again, and still, and always. 

Her head lifts, a nuzzle up his jaw, and back down his cheek, a quick kiss again, soft against his lips.

"But did you truly surprise me with this lovely picnic and risk what our children will do with an entire _day_  with Isabela and Fenris just to kiss my nose?” There is a flash of teeth as she pretends to nip at the tip of his nose. “Seems a waste.”

"A day with you is never a waste."

She stills, and her cheek settles against his. “No, it’s not,” she agrees, whisper soft. “But I cannot recall the last time I got to see you like this, bare to the sun, and I would regret missing such a chance.”

He hums in agreement, his hand sliding up beneath her blouse, and she laughs, oh that laugh, the sound that made him realize he would never be able to go back to a life without her, would never want to, and he leans into the sound, as close to her as he can and still breathe on his own.

” _Tha gaol agam ort_ ,” she murmurs against him, the words of his Grandfather’s tongue gone rich and slow in her Fereldan accent, “ _mo ghràdh bithbhuan,”_ he kisses the soft curve of her breast as he pushes blouse from her shoulders, and her breath catches, the slightest pause between words, “ _is thu m’annsachd.”_

"Forever,” he agrees.

It feels like forever, warm and slow, drowning in each other, in the afternoon light. It feels perfect, how she lifts beneath his palms and fingertips and lips, how her voice rises up to join the birds and the clouds, how her heart beats against his as they join together, how her breath catches and his eyes close and her hips tilt and his voice murmurs her name and they give each other everything, until there’s nothing left but the heat of the sun on sweat-slick skin and her head on his shoulder and their fingers still tangled together.

He was wrong.

There’s nothing more beautiful than this, than her, sun-kissed and breathing his name, her free hand reaching up to let her fingertips find the smile on his face. 

_"Is gràdhaich leam thu,_ Sebastian.”


	20. Transfigurations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adelaide Hawke sings the Chant ( _Transfigurations 12:1 - 12:6_ ); Sebastian Vael listens, and gives thanks.

**O Maker, hear my cry:**  
_our voices intertwined, soft and rough, wordless, wanting, moaning_  
**Guide me through the blackest nights**  
_curtains drawn, the fire dim, the shimmer of her skin beneath my hands_  
**Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked**  
_my heart clenching as she smiles, at me, for me, only me_  
**Make me to rest in the warmest places.**  
_hot and wet and perfect, her body clenching around me as I call her name_

**O Creator, see me kneel:**  
_my head between her thighs, the taste of her upon my tongue_    
**For I walk only where You would bid me**  
_the sway of her hips, the curve of her arse, stride long and sure as she walks before me_  
**Stand only in places You have blessed**  
_defending me to the Grand Cleric, her voice low and fierce, demanding Elthina recognize Starkhaven's claim as truth, as duty_  
**Sing only the words You place in my throat**  
_her words, her throat, "Oh, Maker, yes, Sebastian"_

**My Maker, know my heart**  
_not my own, anymore, hers, forever hers_  
**Take from me a life of sorrow**  
_my father's eyes, shadowed with disappointment, turning away, dismissing me_  
**Lift me from a world of pain**  
_my family's graves, cold and still, mud settling around the markers, smeared across their names_  
**Judge me worthy of Your endless pride**  
_a gift, armor, white and clean, the only thing my father ever gave me_

**My Creator, judge me whole:**  
_her hand in mine_  
**Find me well within Your grace**  
_her eyes, joyful, as they open to see my face_  
**Touch me with fire that I be cleansed**  
_the heat of her skin_  
**Tell me I have sung to Your approval**  
_"Come, let's wander hand in hand"_ **

**O Maker, hear my cry:**  
_"We stand together! For Starkhaven! For Hawke!"_  
**Seat me by Your side in death**  
_seat me by her side in life_  
**Make me one within Your glory**  
_make us one, together, for all our days_  
**And let the world once more see Your favor**  
_let us recreate your wordly glory in our lives_

**For You are the fire at the heart of the world**  
_for she is the fire within my heart, the guide to my conscience, the ease to my sorrow, the light of my joy_  
**And comfort is only Yours to give.**  
_thank You, for my Adelaide_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **quotation from [Teann a-nall](http://www.bbc.co.uk/alba/foghlam/beag_air_bheag/songs/song_04/page_03.shtml), a [cèilidh](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/C%C3%A9ilidh) song composed by Gilleasbaig MacDhòmhnaill that has found its way into a couple of my Sebastian/Adelaide fics.
> 
> Chant verses found on the Dragon Age [wikia](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Chant_of_Light_verses).


	21. entropy and grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have misplaced the original tumblr prompt that inspired this, and I sat on it for a very long time, thinking I was going to fold it into a different WIP, but it appears to want to be its own small scene instead, so I'm moving it here to be archived with the rest of Sebastian's prone-to-sappy Adelaide observations.
> 
> ;)

Sebastian could not imagine, the first time he saw her fight, how he had ever been fooled into thinking her a _simple_ refugee. There was no longer any sign of the awkward stumble or ducked head that so charmingly followed a mis-spoken word or phrase. Neither was there a hint of the arrogant shield that lifted her chin and smoothed her voice when talking down an obnoxious drunk or even more obnoxious noble, the unexpected skill at cooling someone else’s temper that clearly took an effort, though it only showed after the trouble had passed, in the faintest line between her brows, in the hint of a deep breath lifting than slumping her shoulders once the situation calmed.

He had always thought her lovely, too much so, he knew, when he was being strictly honest with himself, but in battle she was sublime. She watched everything, and everyone, and her hands would slide against the wood between her palms, and her hips would shift and her target would be down, one solid hit all it took to keep him there.

She'd claimed a barely passable skill with her staff, _just enough to disguise,_ when she'd told him of her magic.

Oh, how she'd lied.

There was grace and will within her such as he had never seen.

Sometimes her stance would change, would open wide, and he could feel the pain in his throat at that instant of apparent vulnerability. But her feet stayed firm and solid, and there would be a shadow across her staff, or light dripping off her fingers to ring her feet, or a lift in her hair, as if she was caught in a wind he couldn’t see, and Aveline’s swings would be faster, or the gouge along Daryn’s flanks would stop bleeding, or a raider would freeze in her tracks, opening a clear line for Sebastian’s or Varric’s next shot.

Or they’d hear a scream, different than the usual pains of battle, and watch a man stumble and fall to his knees, fingers digging into his forehead or his cheeks as if he wished he could tear his very eyes away to stop from seeing something that wasn’t there, and then Fenris would grant him his wish with one strong swing of his blade.

Though usually the rest of the head came with, of course.

That last one bothered him, afterwards, when he prayed over the dead.

Not that they had killed the poor bastard. Sebastian had made some peace with that, with knowing that they only fought those who refused any other path, but that she could clearly twist their thoughts, their minds, their dreams within their heads.

Too close to every nightmare story of maleficar, and yet.

She was Hawke.

Who had followed Lirene around, offering help even when she’d barely had two coins to rub together herself, who had staggered in at dawn services, no matter how grim her night’s work had been, to lift her head and her voice in sincere prayer.

Who had risked her very freedom, and her mother’s safety, by sharing her secret so she could help him, despite the lack of coin he had with which to offer her a proper reward.

She’d only shrugged, that almost clumsy shift of shoulders that he could never quite interpret, and insisted that it was the least she could do for a friend.

No matter how difficult her magic, or how strange her powers seemed, there was no hint of darkness, no terrible red hot splash of blood beneath her spells.

That would have to be enough, to quiet the dead they left in their wake, no matter how they’d gotten there, enough to soothe his own misgivings at protecting her apostate compatriots as well.

Because he wished very dearly to stay her friend; she was, after all, a far better friend than he could ever possibly deserve.


	22. duende

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for [cheesiestart](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/128258891853)
> 
> duende: Unusual power to attract or charm

The first words he’d ever heard her say had been a tease, and it would have been so easy to have been embarrassed, for her amusement to have had a hint of cruelty, laughing at the Brother she’d caught singing a bawdy tavern song, echoing through the empty chapel in the dark small hours of the morning.

But her voice was warm and soft, and it had been impossible not to smile at her as she walked up between the pews to say hello. Impossible not to enjoy their conversation, the way honest kindness lifted up the words between them.

And then she  _laughed_ , and the previous thirty years of his life seemed somehow dim, that they had not had that laugh within them.

He had made her laugh, and it was a sharp and deadly sort of wish, not quite pride, but not quite safe, either, that twisted in his heart with the hope he could help her to laugh again.


	23. brontide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brontide: the low rumbling of distant thunder
> 
> [for elfyourmother](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/128878196153#notes)

He missed the rain.

The air was heavy, the clouds thick, but too pale to promise any relief. Occasional glints of heat lightning up behind the haze, or the faintest hint of thunder, barely louder than the creak of the harbor chains when the tide shifted.

Even the wind from the sea was too light and slow to make it up to Hightown.

It was oppressive even now, in the pale morning light after  _lauds,_ and he sighed as he trudged back towards the kitchens to snatch something for his dinner from amongst everyone else’s breakfasts before he wandered back to his room to sleep after taking the over-night vigil.

He missed Hawke.

Her voice added something to the morning Chant.

Her smile added something to the rising light as it began to come through the windows, dawn tinted blue and gold and red from the glass.

He was careful not to think about her laugh too often, or it was hard not to worry about how long it had been since he’d heard it.

If all went well on her Expedition, she should be back in a fortnight or so.

No telling if she’d still wander up the stairs for dawn services when she returned. She wouldn’t be keeping smuggler’s hours.

That was something it was necessary to be careful about considering, as well, how much he hoped he’d still get to hear her voice, one rich thread amongst the Brothers and Sisters and few scattered faithful who came to dawn services.

_But it is nice to have such a good friend._

Which was a thought that let him smile, all through his sweet roll and tea.

“Brother Sebastian!”

He glanced up as he swallowed, surprised to see one of the lay sisters looking for him at this time of the morning. He stood, but didn’t move any further, fingers resting against the still warm ceramic of his mostly empty mug.  “Is something wrong?”

Nara frowned, the slightest wrinkle between dark brows. “There’s a messenger for you, from Starkhaven. There’s ….” She stopped and shook her head, clearly dismissing whatever she’d been about to say. “He wouldn’t say anything, just that he had to deliver the news to you in person.”

Sebastian felt a wisp of something cold and slick curl in his stomach, shiver through his chest. He swallowed again. “Of course. Let me?” He couldn’t quite seem to finish a proper sentence, just gestured at his dishes, felt the _something_  tighten in his chest as she nodded, the crease between her brows deepening.

Something was wrong.

Avoiding it wouldn’t make it less wrong.

He swallowed the last bitter dregs of his tea, returned his dishes to the wash-bucket, and followed Nara out of the kitchen.


End file.
